Freedom
by Dylan-Schumacher
Summary: A story of one human who wishes to break free of the oppression and live his life freely. What awaits him in the future is far beyond what he can handle.


He looked forward, past Kate. In the corner of his eye, he saw the blue line approaching them from a high window in an old building which overlooked the small alley. Although he had noticed it, it was too late. A sudden crack could be heard throughout the slums, echoing in his ears. As it rippled through the airwaves, and through the fabrics of his worn-out blue shirt, the last thing he saw was her face.. cold.. tired.. beautiful. Slowly, his vision blurred and his hearing went blank. The girl screamed "No! Noo... Why.." as she rushed up to him. The body fell to the floor, and ignoring the danger, she looked into his eyes, as they slowly stopped blinking. All the memories, and the moments they had. Gone. All his reasons for living and his effort put in just to live.. 'freely', as they call it. Was he really free? Was anyone free?

A long time ago -  
It was a cold morning, and about 6 o'clock to be exact. He took a long breath, and watched the fog from his mouth raise into the sky as he exhaled. He scratched at his shaggy brown hair, before focusing on the clouds, and the atmosphere. It was a gloomy day in 'Slums Sector 04 of City 19' as the Union would state it. A breeze of chilling air whipped past his hands, and he quickly put them in the pockets of the jacket for warmth. The man continued to grow colder and even started to shiver. He headed off down the littered street, looking to the destroyed and abandoned buildings around him once more. He took a sharp turn right, and moved some boulders, rolling them to the side before rolling them back as he entered. There was an old door down a small metal staircase. He entered, and he remembered the strange scent he had smelt from previous visits. Throughout the room there was a long bar table, and stools arranged. Only two other men discussing something at a table near the far-side of the room. He wondered what they were talking about, then shrugged and continued forward. He took a seat on the stool next to the wall. The barkeeper turned around. He always seemed a bit scary to him. The barkeeper had a mutton chop and a thin, but long braided beard. He looked directly at the man in the stool, showing his eyes. The right one was gray, and a long scar lay across from his cheekbone to his forehead, cutting through the eye. The man in the stool sighed, and said, "What.. happened to your eye?"  
"Are you hear to get something to drink or aren't you?", He snarled back.  
"I'm Keith.. Keith Anderson.." The man in the stool said.  
"Good to know", The bartender replied clearly with sarcasm.  
Keith asked for a beer, and began to sip on it once the bartender slid it across the old table. He discreetly eyed the two at the table, seeming to be really curious about them. After finishing the beer, he payed the small tab and exited the building. Keith moved the boulders once more, and looked around to make sure no one was watching. Not seeing anything, he rolled them back, and walked on. Casually, he walked around the corner, and was met with a gun to his forehead.  
"Don't move", she said firmly. Clearly by the voice, it was a female. Though, Keith could not make out her appearance due to the heavy shade over the building.  
"Wha-.. Who-... O-Okay..", He replied, worried. He stood there, nervous.  
"What's behind those rocks?", she asked.  
"No-Nothing.. Who are you?"  
"Let's not worry about that. Now tell me what is behind those rocks!", She scowled, putting the gun closer. Keith backed up, putting his hands up to show he isn't hostile.  
"A bar.. Just a bar.."  
She came out of the dark, revealing herself. Keith's eyes widened. He thought she looked amazing. Her hair was light brown, and it was in a pony tail. Her eyes were light blue, and she had a pretty face. Some might believe in love at first sight. Keith loved the girl as soon as he saw her, though.. He wouldn't show it at first. 


End file.
